The Transition Of Jim Moriarty To Richard Brook
by Joss Teagan
Summary: Post-Reichenbach. John Watson discovers that although on the fateful day that Sherlock took his own life, Jim Moriarty survived. However, he is suffering from memory loss and is apparently harmless. When Mycroft entrusts John with the task of monitoring 'Richard', he doesn't realise that the biggest obstacle he'll face is his own feelings towards the harmless consulting criminal. -
1. Dead Men Rise Up Never

**Disclaimer: I'm only borrowing the characters for my own reasons. I give them back at the end of the day.**

**Don't forget to review/favourite/follow if you like this fic! It helps motivate me to write.**

**Earnestly yours, Joss Teagan.**

John received the call when he was at Sherlock's grave, kneeling beside the headstone as rain poured down. It wasn't the first time he had visited his deceased friend's grave, nor would it be the last. If his mobile phone hadn't been on vibrate mode, he wouldn't even have realised Mycroft Holmes, the late Sherlock's older brother, was calling him. The onslaught of relentless rain deafened him, and the tinny chime of a phone wouldn't have reached his ears.

"Hello, Mycroft, guess where I am?"

"John, I'm having trouble hearing you- are you outside?"

"You say that like you don't have CCTV trained on me constantly." John yelled into the mouthpiece, hoping his voice wasn't silenced by the rain.

"John, I need you to come to the Diogenes club-"

"Piss off, Mycroft, too much has happened for us to have cosy chats and I won't be your dogsbody-"

"It's Moriarty. He's woken up."

John ended the call with a click.

He was very conscious of his wet shoes squeaking on the wood as he was led along by a grim-faced silent attendant. When he finally entered the familiar room, he sighed, the oppressive silence of the club no longer suffocating him.

"How long?" he said to Mycroft's tweed-covered back, as the older man placed a book on the bookshelf.

"A few hours. He's disorientated but lucid. I called you not long after I found out myself. Thank you for coming so quickly, John," Mycroft's gaze slipped from John's forehead to the wall behind him. "Thank you for coming at all."

"Had to, didn't I?" John gruffly muttered, glad Mycroft wasn't looking at him. He couldn't handle that penetrating stare right now. "And- where is he?"

"A hospital you're familiar with…"

"Bart's? He's at Bart's?" John's incredulous look of horror was ill-matched against the bland look on Mycroft's face.

Mycroft inclined his head. "Indeed."

"Mycroft, that man is a psychopath, he's a genius and dangerous. Hell, he was smart enough to fool you! And you've just got him lying in a hospital bed, surrounded by innocent people!"

"I assure you, we have armed guards stationed outside the door of his room. He is being monitored constantly and I will be informed of any changes in his recovery. John…he…doesn't remember."

"I, I don't follow you." John stepped closer, his eyes scanning Mycroft's face. he wished he could read a person, deduce them like Sher-

"He has been diagnosed with retrograde amnesia. Before…my brother jumped, Moriarty met with him on the roof of St. Bart's. We'll never know what was said during this encounter, but we know the consequences. Moriarty shot himself in the mouth and…Sherlock jumped. Of course, you and I both know that _he_ had been successful in tarnishing my brother's reputation prior to the meeting, so perhaps he considered his work to be done. Moriarty doesn't reason things out in the way that sane people do, John, and I believe he truly intended to die. But he was lucky. He survived but paid the price with brain damage. In this case, memory loss."

"How badly is he affected?" John wished he could get his hands on the medical file. Mycroft gave him a steely look, leaning against his desk with his arms folded.

"As far as he is concerned, Jim Moriarty never existed. He believes that he is a children's entertainer called Richard Brook because that is all the information he has. That's what the nurses call him. He knows nothing of you, me, or Sherlock. If you said the name Jim Moriarty to him, he'd look at you blankly." Mycroft retrieved a small photograph from his breast pocket and passed it to John.

The Moriarty in the picture was pale and sickly, lying prone in a hospital bed with several wires sticking out of pale skin. His eyes were closed and his mouth slightly open, and his hair was tangled. John's eyes travelled over the woebegone patient for a few minutes, until he became aware of Mycroft staring at him intently. John cleared his throat, thrusting the photo forward like it was burning hot.

"It's like he's a different person," he managed to say. "He looks so small, so frail, so-"

"Diminished?" Mycroft asked. At John's nod, he gave a humourless smile. "The greatest criminal the world has ever encountered and he's currently getting fussed over by nurse, thanking them for fluffing his pillow."

"I appreciate you informing me of this, Mycroft, I really am. I know that things ended badly…and I want you to know that I still haven't forgiven you for betraying Sherlock."

"I understand that. I didn't contact you today to beg for your forgiveness, although I would of course prefer it if you didn't consider me an enemy. I know you think I'm in no position to ask this but- I have a favour to ask of you."

John narrowed his eyes. "I should have seen this. Why would you bother to keep me in the loop? No, of course you want something. Because that's the way you work."

Mycroft's reaction as quick and explosive. "Don't presume to know anything about me, besides the biased opinions of my brother! YOU KNOW NOTHING, NOTHING ABOUT ME, JOHN!"

The anger in Mycroft's voice triggered John's own rage, his voice rose too, matching the fire blasting out with every syllable. "I know that you were so_ eager_ to learn about Moriarty that you were _stupid _enough to compromise you _own_ brother!"

"I LOST SOMEONE TOO, THAT DAY! You forget that, don't you! _I lost my brother_. Are you _oblivious_, blind to the _guilt_ that I feel? I have to live _every_ day of my life knowing that I am the reason my brother is no more? Cut down before his time. I will never forget my actions that day, so I don't need to be _reminded_-" Mycroft broke off suddenly, raking a hand through his hair. Both men were panting, and John felt sick, looking at Mycroft's reddened face, his chest heaving with emotion. With a visible effort, Mycroft gradually composed himself until the earlier ire was all but gone from his countenance, save for his mouth being drawn in a tight line.

"I apologise for my outburst, John. Seeing what is essentially Sherlock's killer alive and well has…released some feelings I would rather stay hidden."

"Yeah, well, me too. I know that you cared about him too. he was your brother, after all."  
"Quite. Now, if we could proceed with the matters at hand? You seemed aghast at the thought of Moriarty being under the care of the St. Bart's medical team, but he wasn't originally there. We had him moved when the extent of his cranial injuries were revealed. I thought it would be more convenient."

"Convenient for what?"

"I'm going to ask you to do something, John. You have the right to decline but know that I'm asking you because Sherlock trusted you. And if he trusted you, then that's good enough for me."

"What do you need me to do?"

"The release date for Moriarty, or should we say Richard Brook, is approaching fast. He'll need accommodation. You still live in 221B-"

"You can't be asking what I think you're asking-"

"It would only be for a few months. I need your medical expertise, John, as well as your knowledge of Moriarty's personality, his little ticks and idiosyncrasies. You are in the unique position of being one the few people in existence, with the exception of his employees, who has spent time in his company and lived to tell the tale. Even when I was interrogating him, he was still playing a role, wearing a mask. That's what made it so difficult. But he didn't have to pretend with you and Sherlock- he had all the power. Having a doctor with your military training around him all hours of the day would reassure me greatly. You don't have to like him, just subtly observe him. Contact me if you spot anything that makes you think his memory is returning. He only recently came out of his coma, so there's no telling what he will recall. I'll understand if you refuse but-"

"I'll do it. For Sherlock."

"For Sherlock," Mycroft agreed, his eyes unfocused, and they began to discuss the plan.


	2. Upon First Sight

"Thank you for coming. Richard would love some visitors," The overweight nurse beamed up at Mycroft, and clasped John's hand between hers. The multi-tasking was unnecessary; Mycroft didn't look very impressed.

"Yes. We'll want to be left alone with him."

"Of course, Sir. But please, he's very weak right now; he's been in a coma for over a year. Please don't say anything that might disturb him."

"Disturbing Mr Brooke is the furthest thing from my mind," Mycroft murmured through his teeth, a polite smile in place. They waited until the nurse had left before speaking, albeit in hushed turns although the guards outside the room's door didn't look at them, except for the respectful nod in Mycroft's direction at the beginning.

"There won't be any guards in the room then?"

"No, John. I don't want to give him a reason to panic, or accidentally jog his memory."

"And what should I say? He's not going to walk off with a total stranger."

"He's more desperate than you realise. He has no one in the world that he knows. Nobody has come to see him. He'll be glad of some human company."

"Why can't you go in and see him?"

"I will meet him in due time. You can be sure of that. But right now, I want him to meet you and you only. If he sees us together and associates us as being friends, it's more likely he'll remember. And then he won't trust either of us and it'll be impossible to get any information out of him.

"Well, I'm convinced. I'd better go in and shake the bastard's hand. But what do I say, how should I introduce myself?"

"Stick to the truth as much as you can, without revealing how you really know him. But if you want to know how to introduce yourself…just say 'My name is John Watson.'" Mycroft turned and walked down the hallway, his umbrella clacking on the floor. "Good luck, John."

"Thanks," John muttered, but Mycroft had already gone. He sighed, took a breath and opened the door.

John had the uncomfortable sensation of being trapped. He was in an unlocked room with two guards only separated from him by a wall and yet he felt like he'd been directly dropped in the lion's den. He slowly eased forward, uncharacteristically quiet and graceful, so as not to attract the attention of the prone figure on the bed. When he was close enough, he was able to pick put the differences between the Moriarty from his nightmares and the Moriarty here. Moriarty was looking better, there was a slight flush to his cheeks, making him look less pallid and lifeless. His hair was longer, but then again, he had been comatose for a year so John expected that. But the biggest difference was how still he was. The Jim Moriarty who had kidnapped John had been a whirlwind of manic energy, spontaneous and wild, so animated he seemed barely human, more like a parody of insanity. The Moriarty lying in front of him was still, except for the quiet breathing, the rise and fall of his chest. He was almost silent; John had to hold _his_ breath to hear Jim's.

Moriarty frowned in his sleep and John's eyes widened. Instinctively, he backed away a bit, but Moriarty's eyes were already opening and John couldn't show him he was scared.

"Morning," John stuttered, when Moriarty was finally fully awake.

"Morning," the man replied, voice hoarse. John supposed it was ingrained, like when you always respond with 'fine' when someone asks how you are.

John glanced around for a chair, and located one. He dragged it over, not feeling very sorry when 'Richard' winced at the harsh scrape of the chair legs on the floor.

Moriarty hauled himself into a sitting position. He'd obviously already come out of the coma, this was just him waking up from a nap, but all the same, John was impressed by how quickly he made the transition from asleep to perfectly awake.

"I don't, I don't remember anything," Richard's voice was quiet, with Moriarty's Irish accent but softer. He spoke quietly. "They've already asked me and I don't know who I am. Are you a doctor?"

John's breath caught in his throat. _He knows_. "What makes you think that?"

Richard shrugged. "The only people who have come in here are doctors, nurses, the occasional cleaner. Didn't even get a Get Well Soon Card,"

John's temper flared, Sherlock was six feet under while this pathetic version of Moriarty whined about his social life. "Well, I guess my card got lost in the mail." he snapped, straightening the collar of his khaki jacket in an irritated way.

Richard swallowed and looked away. "Sorry, I didn't mean to sound ungrateful."

John breathing slowed, but he couldn't help inwardly marvelling at Richard's apology. The man really was different to the evil incarnate from before. "I _am_ a doctor but I'm not here for that."

"So…why are you here?" Richard pulled his covers a little closer around his thin body.

"I thought because I'm a doctor, I could help you, help look after you and help you come to terms with your condition. It can be quite difficult for people to adjust to."

"I don't want to be a burden…" Richard glanced uncertainly at John, than ducked his head.

"You wouldn't be." John assured him, trying to hold onto the anger roiling around in his stomach. He couldn't help the resentment that his best friend's enemy still lived.

"But, I mean, you don't even know me from Adam, do you?"

John leant forward and Richard shrank back. Perhaps it was the intensity in John's eyes or the conviction in his voice. "Actually, _Richard_, I do."

**More to come soon!**


	3. Do You Want To?

"You knew me? We were friends?" Richard's eyes brightened at John's nod.

"In a manner of speaking," John stretched his legs, an old habit from when the psychosomatic limp had dictated his movements. Richard tracked the gesture with his eyes but seemed more interested in finding out how he came to know John.

"Were you a school friend?"

"Do I sound Irish to you?" John muttered, glancing around the room. In truth, he was searching for inspiration, he could hardly tell Richard the truth.

"Oh, so silly of me! Well, do I know you from work?"

John shrugged. Richard would never get it.

"So I sort of know you from work. Are you a fan? The nurses told me I'm an actor. Or was."

"Not a fan, no," John stood up, almost wishing he had his cane so he'd have something to do with his hands. "Let's just say there was a friendly business rivalry going on."

"You're an actor too?"

"I never said that. Listen…Richard. What are you going to do when they let you out of here?"

Richard's lips moved silently for a moment, then he licked them. "I don't know. I don't have anyone, I mean, I don't know-" He blinked a few times and John was certain he was going to cry. But with an effort, Richard swallowed and held back the tears. Thank God.

"_Richard…_" John wondered how Sherlock would handle this problem, when he wanted it, the man could ooze charm, but he'd most likely just strong-arm this pathetic invalid rather than being nice. Politesse and amiability should have come naturally but with every second that John watched Richard sitting and breathing, completely innocent and so lucky, it was a physical effort not to claw the man's eyes out with his own fingers.

"I'm sorry," Richard's hands covered his eyes. John was inexplicably reminded of the playground game Hide and Seek, and this only served to reinforce his realisation that Richard was so far away from what Moriarty had been. That didn't make the sobbing man on the bed any more endearing though. "I'm sorry, I'm so embarrassed, crying in front of you- what you must think! I just- it's all just beginning to sink in now, I don't know anyone. No one cares, J-John, nobody does, nobody came to visit me…"

"I did," John quietly reminded him, and Richard's head jerked up, his face pink and shining with tears.

"You did. Thank you."

"I came to give you an offer. I was- sorry, do you want a tissue? Oh alright then. Anyway, I think I can give you a solution to your problem. Richard, do you want to live with me?"

"With-with you?" Richard's face crumpled in confusion. "But I don't even know you!"

"Yes, but I know you. And you're forgetting that I'm a doctor, so will be on call if you need my help. You're still very ill, Richard. You can stay with me in my flat," John hesitated for a moment before writing on one of the tissues from the pack he had offered Richard. "Here's my number. Have the nurses call me when the doctor dismisses you, and we'll get a cab together."

"But- I don't have any money- at least, I don't think I do-"

"I'm sure my landlady will make a special exception to the rent just for as long as it takes you to get a job." John told him, although he expected Mycroft would pay Richard's rent until then. Mrs Hudson wouldn't like this but John figured once he'd explained everything to her and stressed the importance that she didn't confront Richard, things would be better. She wouldn't be her usual chatty self around the shy Irishman, but she'd understand.

"I don't know how to thank you," Richard simpered, his eyes growing watery again. He released an almighty sniff.

"Just don't start crying again- bit weird." John joked, rolling his eyes. He made his way to the door.

"Bye, John. See you soon."

"Bye, Ji- I mean, Richard. See you sooner." John walked out of the room, his heart beating as fast as if he'd taken part in a marathon. Behind him he heard Richard's weak laughter at his departing remark. This was going to be tricky.

When he exited the hospital, it was no surprise to see the sleek black car crawling alongside him, extra-slow so it could match his pace. John sighed and stopped, annoyed enough to pull the door open himself and slip inside.

"I suppose you want an update. From my professional opinion, the shoe fits, it's likely he can't remember his past. If he ever felt any remorse about what he did, then his memory loss could be a way of his brain protecting him from the truth. The mind's funny that way."

"Yes, most amusing. John, you're speaking as a doctor- and if I wanted to speak to a doctor I'd have my chauffeur turn the car around to go back to Bart's. what did you personally think? Has he changed?" Mycroft's eyes connected with John's and John had to look away. He stared up at the dark roof of the car, summoning up a memory of Moriarty lying in that hospital bed.

"He can act. Moriarty really could. All that Jim from IT shit, but not that well. Everything about him was different, he was shy, he _cried_, and I know what you're thinking- crocodile tears. But there was something else, something you can't fake, something in the eyes. If you showed me one of Moriarty's court pictures and that photo you showed me in the club and compared them, I'd say they were two different men. All that's happened is a blow to the head and suddenly, he's…changed."

"No matter what, he is still the man who made my brother believe that he should plunge to his death. He will still pay for his crimes. John, I fear you may grow attached-"

"Attached? To that monster? Stop the car, I'm getting out."

"Doctor Watson-"

"MYCROFT! Stop. The. Car." he spat, his fingers itching to strangle Mycroft using that hideous silk tie.

Mycroft rapped on the driver's seat with his umbrella and the driver duly stopped the car. John wrenched the door open and jumped out, ignoring Mycroft.

"John, I say this out of concern…"

"The truth is your meddling killed your brother. I guess you won't rest until I'm dead too." Trying to block out Mycroft's stunned expression, John stormed off, Mycroft and Moriarty now far from his mind. There was another genius he needed but unfortunately, he was in a worse condition than a coma.


	4. Baker Street

The days until Richard's dismissal date dragged by. John spent the time sleeping, working at the clinic (Sarah had been very understanding after Sherlock's death but there was no chance of them ever rekindling their half-hearted relationship) and staring at the blank page of his blog with its flickering cursor. Mycroft hadn't contacted him again. John had visited Richard a couple of times. He'd bring him a few papers, and tell him what was going on in the outside world. He didn't mention himself, Sherlock or Richard's real identity. It was like the last year had never happened.

"They gave me new clothes," was what Richard said, after they'd bid each other awkward hellos on the day of his dismissal. John raked an eye over Richard's shirt and jeans, his doctor's eye taking in the sallow skin and taut bones pulling on thin, unhealthy skin.

"I know, I look terrible, right?"

"Not at all. You look better than last time. You weren't wearing Levi jeans though."

"Oh really?" Richard grinned at him. "What was I wearing last time?"

God, he looked like him when he smiled. It was as if Moriarty was back in the mental controls of this frail body. "You wore a suit," he forced out, smoothing out wrinkles in his jumper nervously. Richard was oblivious to his unease, he playfully grasped one of John's hands, tugging on it.

"A suit? Was it nice?"

"Uh, I couldn't possibly say. It was Westwood, I think. But you wouldn't want it now. All the blood and…probably wouldn't fit you anymore."

"Yeah, the doctors say I've lost a lot of weight. To be expected, I suppose."

"Did they give you any advice on exercise? You've been lying in a bed for a year, there would be muscle atrophy to think of."

"They gave me instructions, said I should ease into it. And I shouldn't force my memories, I should let them come naturally."

"They're probably right. I'll get us a taxi. " Fortunately, one arrived almost immediately, and John gratefully clambered into it. "Hi, 221B Baker Street, please." Richard slumped down beside him, an unattractive scowl in place.

"But it's so frustrating! I don't want to wait! I have no idea who I am! I have to just take everybody at their word! It's the worst."

"You remind me of someone when you do that."

"Do what?"

"When you get all melodramatic. Richard, listen to me. Sometimes, the truth _doesn't_ set you free. Sometimes, it's the memories, memories of pain, of failure, that keep you from achieving anything. Some people would love to be in your position." John said, as gently as he could, speaking quietly so the taxi driver couldn't hear. Richard's dark eyes held his own.

"Are you one of those people?" the brunette asked. John found he couldn't answer him, so he cleared his throat and turned to look out the window. Richard let out a small sigh and copied him, with his own window.

The rest of the ride was uneventful, but John found a confidence seeping into him with every turn, brake and acceleration of the cab. Perhaps it was his apathy that sustained him, a sane man with many things to live for would be terrified of having this man under his roof, but everything John had believed in had turned to dust. His best friend was dead. There had been times when John had even wondered if he and Sherlock could become more than friends, but that conversation had never reached the air. _I always thought there'd be time_, John thought, _but then time ran out on us…_

"Oi, dreamy. This is it, 221B, right?" John was jolted out of his reverie by the cab driver nasal voice, and he scrambled to get up, ignoring the way Richard was looking at him in curiosity. John muttered thanks, shoved a few notes at him and left without receiving the change. Seeing that familiar, black painted door with its smart knocker, he felt a wave of nausea rolling in his stomach. Whenever he went out, to visit Sherlock's grave or to meet Lestrade when the detective inspector's texts got too insistent, it was always a relief to come back _home_. Sherlock's body may be lying in a wooden box under six feet of sod, but this was where he had_ lived_ and the flat still showed that.

But now John was bringing someone else in. someone who might question these ways, might ruin this one safe place. _I won't let him. He's already won in so many ways; I won't let him take this too._

"Wow. Looks nice. Can't be cheap."

"That's what I said when I first saw it," John told him with a laugh. He opened the door, feeling a bit better. "Welcome to your new home."

Richard's own thought were ticking over in his brain while John cheerfully sauntered through the cosy London flat. Richard didn't have much with him, just a small bag with a few changes of clothes and that morning's Metro. He hefted his duffel bag over his shoulder, humming quietly as he followed John up the stairs.

He wasn't sure what to make of John. The man had been nothing but courteous, aside from the odd snarky comment, and he had already done so much for Richard. But there was something else about him, a prickliness to his personality that didn't seem to be present when John was with other people. Richard had observed John being perfectly pleasant with the doctors, but as soon as his eyes fell on Richard, there was a coolness in them that made Richard shiver, just a bit. He'd wondered if maybe he'd done something in the past to offend John, and John was only helping him because nobody else would. But Richard knew he didn't have any way to see if that was true, except asking John. Or waiting for his memories to return. And there was something else to John, a sadness. The few instances where Richard had seen John laugh had been surprising, because the man would often lapse into brooding silences, only infrequently interspersed with some forced small talk. Richard got the impression that this grim, solemn John hadn't always been this way.

They had reached a door and John swung it open, stepping through. Richard followed and as his eyes took in the room, he gaped.

"Uh, yes, sorry, it's a bit…messy…" John straightened a few things here and there but seemed resigned to the fact that the room looked like a bomb had hit it.

"Yeah…just a bit…" Richard muttered, stepping over a book. He picked it up, flicking through the pages. Forensic Developments In The Modern Age. "It's lived in. That's what it is. Lived in."

"It's a pigsty," John flung himself on the sofa, kicking a folder off it. "But it's home, you know?"

"You've got a- God, you've got a skull!"

"Yes," John jumped up and joined Richard. "Not mine. Never did find out its name. Seems remiss now. Always meant to, never remembered to ask."

"It's creepy. And a riding crop…?" Richard felt a blush crawling up his face and neck as he nudged the thing with his foot and he wished he'd never said anything. A subtle glance told him John was experiencing the same flush.

"Not used for- that purpose. Or riding a horse, funnily enough. It belonged to my friend, he used it for work. Oh crap, that sounds wrong. But trust me, there was no- _funny business_ going on."

"No funny business, ok, I believe you. When can I meet this friend, he sounds like a laugh!"

John's face fell and Richard wished he could take back the words, for the second time that day. "He died. And all I have left…is this." He gestured around at the collective mess, and without warning, seized what looked to be a dagger off the floor. Richard winced but the blonde man just stabbed it viciously into the mantelpiece, into the centre of a stack of letters.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend you. It's never easy, losing a friend."

Richard thought John muttered "Well, I say_ friend_," but it could have been something else.

"John, I understand what you're going for. You lost your friend and I…lost my memories."

John tapped his mouth thoughtfully, although the look in his eyes was a warning. "There's just one flaw in your little comparison, Brook. I'd gladly give up my memories if it meant Sh- my friend was back." He left the room without a word. Richard sighed.

"I'm completely alone." he whispered. The grinning skull ignored him.


	5. Left To My Own Devices

John left Richard to his own devices for the rest of the day. There wasn't much to do; Richard at first moped around and watched a bit of television. He had no money so couldn't go out, and wasn't even sure if he wanted to anyway. The possibility of getting lost was too high. Instead, he tidied up the living room as best he could, then collapsed onto the green armchair and picked up that forensic book he'd spotted earlier. It was more fascinating than he could have imagined, hours slipped by as Richard immersed himself in the world of forensic criminology, the study into finger prints, footprints and fibres.

He'd lost track of time so when John placed a cup of tea beside him, smiling down at the man, Richard blinked, still lost in his book.

"What are you reading?"

"Oh, just about Deoxyribonucleic acid," he grinned, waggling the book between his hands. John playfully snatched it off him, idly flicking through the pages.

"Looks like you've learnt something. It's good to see that book being used again. It's getting late, I was thinking about dinner?"

"Sure, where do you want to go?" Richard leapt up, excitement rising at the prospect of going out. He sensed John's hesitation before it showed on his face, and Richard swallowed his disappointment.

"Uh, I was thinking we could order in. A nice takeaway, put the telly on, just kick back and relax."

"Sounds ideal," Richard told him politely. Perhaps it wouldn't be so boring stuck in the flat if he had John to talk to.

"Excellent! What do you fancy?"

"Um…Indian? "

"Ok, I'll go and call. We've got a whole stack of takeaway menus here, it was practically all we used to eat. Anything you like specifically or-can you not remember?"

Richard cringed and John blushed, looking as if he wished the carpet would split open and swallow him up.

"Anything's fine, John, I'll have whatever you're having."

"Ok," John said quietly, shame still reddening his face. "I'll go and-"

"Yeah."

Richard busied himself with setting out cutlery, plates and bowls. The kitchen was a mess but at least it wasn't as bad as the living room- John had made _some_ effort to try and make it habitable. The dishes were clean but on one end of the counter were stacks of bowls, flasks and the occasional petri dish, most of which were covered in questionable substances. Richard wrinkled his nose at the green mould coating one bowl. He couldn't understand why John would have these in there.

When the doorbell rang and John rushed down to answer it, Richard's stomach growled and he settled down at the sofa, eagerly awaiting the food. It had to be better than the hospital cooking. John came in the living room with paper bags of steaming food, and Richard helped him set it down. When they were scarfing down hot Vindaloo, washed down with ice-cold beer, both found that they were too hungry to talk at that time, so for a while the only sound in the flat was chewing and the occasional rustle of napkins(Richard had found an ancient-looking pack under a Bunsen burner in one of the kitchen cupboards) but it was an amicable, comfortable silence.

"So, John," Richard said when he finally felt like he wouldn't drop down from malnourishment. "You never told me the specifics of how we met."

John froze, his fork hovering near his lips. Richard debated whether to change the subject, but John answered his question. In a manner of sorts.

"I know. I know. And I'm sorry for being so tight-lipped, I just- I don't want to overload your head with information. I mean, you don't actually have any way of verifying what I've said so far- I could just be a random stranger and be lying when I said that I knew you."

"No, I don't believe that. We knew each other before."

John slowly lowered his fork, his eye fixed on his plate. "And…what makes you so certain?"

A shrug. "Nothing specific. I just feel...I can't really describe it."

"Try. For me."

"Ok. When I woke up in that hospital, I panicked. I could see everything, but I felt so weak and all these nurses were running around me and calling me _Mr Brook_ and I wanted to scream 'That's not my name!' because I didn't recognise it, but then I realised I didn't even _know_ my name, _nothing_ was recognisable anymore."

"Some people have it worse. They can't remember anything- street signs, family, even-" John twisted the aluminium utensil between his hands. "-how to use a fork."

"I know. Lucky, lucky, lucky. That's what they all said to me, at Bart's. But I didn't feel it and I still don't. I just wish I could remember even the tiniest thing…"

"Don't force your memories," Jon warned him, eyes narrowed.

"Ugh, you sound just like them. But if I don't try to _remember_, how am I supposed to _remember _anything?"

"Just let it come naturally, I suppose," John patted his mouth with a napkin and then hesitated. "You got in touch with my friend, through his website. You messaged each other on it. And then one day, all three of us…met up...at a swimming pool."

Richard nodded, gratefully drinking in the information. Perhaps it was all the food, the beer or the topic of their conversation but he suddenly felt light-headed. He got to his feet and excused himself to go to the bathroom. John's face was concerned but he let Richard go.

Richard ran to the bathroom, his legs buckling like a new-born foal and it was an effort to shut the door behind him and lock it. He splashed cold water onto his face from the tap, deliberately not looking in the mirror. He'd intently studied himself in it at the hospital, checking as his hollow cheeks gradually filled out. He'd gripped the hand mirror they'd given him, his eyes running over the unfamiliar face, looking for scars and wrinkles or anything that could tell him more about the man he was. With his thick, dark hair and clear skin, he knew he could be handsome, but he felt like he was operating a puppet, pulling strings to move each facial muscle and that his _real_ face was waiting somewhere else for him.

But right now, his mind was on what John had told him. Had he been closer to John's unnamed friend than John himself? Now that John was loosening up, the beer and food making him more relaxed, he was a good dinner companion and Richard had enjoyed spending time with him. He wasn't sure that would be the case if they'd really had this 'business rivalry' John had fleetingly referred to before. He didn't think John was lying though- just smoothing over the truth. Euphemising what could have been a tense relationship. When John had said they'd all met, something inside Richard had clicked and he'd believed John as strongly as he believed the world is round. He couldn't explain how he knew they'd met at a swimming pool but he did.

He fetched a towel and pressed it against his face, closing his eyes. Trying to picture a swimming pool, the smell of chlorine, the signs, the still, blue water and the cold, damp tiles. He tried to imagine John, dressed as he was now, in a jumper and jeans and himself, in a suit like John had said he sued to like to wear. The only thing he couldn't visualise was John's friend. He wished he'd seen his face but John didn't seem to have any photographs of him in the living room. Richard reckoned if he had any, they'd be in his bedroom but he'd never betray John's trust by purposefully looking for them.

As he thought of the pool again, his head began to itch, then an ache but still, he persisted. _Just one memory, please, anything…_and then a flash, a flash of an image in his brain, a MEMORY.

_John grabbing hold of him from behind, his arms so tight around Richard's waist…the pool water was shining and it was so quiet…Richard could barely feel the man's body though John's thick coat but his heart was racing anyway…_

Richard's eyes snapped open and the image disappeared when a loud banging interrupted his thoughts.

"Yes?" he squeaked, his hand clamping down over his furiously galloping heart.

"Rich, you're taking a while, are you alright?"

_He called me Rich. Like he knows me well._

"I'm fine, John."

Richard unlocked the door and smiled at the man he thought may well have been his boyfriend.


	6. Support And Kindness

Richard glanced up as John entered the room again

"Was just sorting your room out. Wanna have a look?" At John's eager expression, Richard quickly agreed. He followed John up to the room without question.

The room was a generous size but seemed no bigger than a box room, a storage room. The size had been greatly diminished by the collection of cardboard boxes littering the floor, in various sizes, all marked with permanent marker and all sealed up with brown masking tape. Richard placed his duffel bag on one, a box entitled "CLOTHES" and sat on the bed. The bedsprings creaked embarrassingly and a cloud of dust rose up from the duvet cover. He fought the urge to sneeze.

"Sorry about that, I'll clean it later. Or right now if you want. You don't have asthma, do you?"

"Don't worry about it, I'll clean it later. I've changed the sheets, blankets and pillows but it could do with a dusting. You've been very good to me. I'll just unpack, yeah?"

"Mm, ok. Well, I'm going you put the kettle on, make some tea. Do you want some?"

"Thanks."

"Ok, I'll call you when it's ready." John bustled out of the room, noisily sidestepping the maze of boxes.

When Richard could no longer hear John's footsteps on the stairs, he sank back onto the stiff bed with a sigh. Everything about this room showed it hadn't been used in a long time, and Richard could only assume that the boxes contained possessions belonging to John's deceased friend. On closer inspection, many of the boxes bore the label "CASE NOTES", with a few saying "PERSONAL ITEMS" and one small, battered box informing the reader it contained "DISGUISES". It was after Jim had hung up his few, bland outfits in the musty-smelling wardrobe that he realised he recognised the handwriting. The flutter of hope he felt at his memories perhaps coming back was soon crushed as he finally placed where he'd seen the writing before. When John had written on that tissue when he first visited Richard in hospital. He held back another sigh. His mind was blank and empty, no memories of friends and fun to fill it, no experience, nothing. Except one memory. Of one hug. Richard sighed, stirring the thick layer of dust with his foot-he may as well be a mannequin for all the personality he had.

John came up, handing Richard a new toothbrush and an opened packet of disposable razor blades.

"That should tide you over until I can buy more. Use my shaving cream, I don't mind. Remember," John said. "If there's anything you need, I'm just in the other room. Lying in an unfamiliar bed, living with strangers, I can understand that it would be overwhelming but I'm here to help. But…best not to disrupt our landlady tonight."

Richard worriedly gnawed at his lip, not even aware he was doing it. "But what will I do about the rent? Will she kick me out?"

John hesitated, watching Richard run his thumb along the bristles of the toothbrush. "I…haven't exactly told her yet."

"WHAT? John!" Richard couldn't believe John could be so irresponsible. "This is like the three little bears- 'who's been sleeping in my bed!' She'll go spare if she finds out you're getting tenants for her!"

"No, no, Mrs Hudson is very understanding." John sat down next to Richard, the bed dipping under their combined weight. Suddenly, they were so close, thighs touching and Richard swallowed, avoiding John's eyes. Thinking back to his inference that he and John had a romantic history, being so physically close to John was making him nervous. Was this their chemistry, or was he making up things that weren't there? Richard wet his lips, trying to look coolly seductive while John blustered through excuses on keeping their landlady in the dark.

"It's just, she's elderly and quite, um, frail so I didn't want to surprise her. Her last tenant died. I just don't want her to feel rushed. Tell you what, first thing tomorrow, I'll talk to her privately, and later on, she'll meet you. She doesn't come up here so much anymore- so she won't…intrude on our lives. I barely even see her these days." John eased out a breath, his shoulders slumped as if he rested the world's weight on them. Richard wanted to curl an arm around him, just let him know that he didn't have to go through this, the business with Mrs Hudson, his grieving process, alone. Richard flushed with guilt, thinking that he was also contributing to John's stress. He had to help.

"Do you-? If you need anything, I mean, to talk, a friend, I can-"

"I just miss him," John looked so bleak, so old and tired at that moment that Richard's eyes burned with tears. The bald emotion in John's voice was naked and vulnerable, he was exposing his soul for Richard's viewing. "I miss him, and I miss my friend Greg, and I miss…Mrs Hudson," On the last name, his voice broke and his face crumpled, he turned away and Richard was looking at his back, the wet, sniffling sounds muffled.

"John…" Because that was all he could say. How could he help when he didn't even know the full story? Once again, he felt impeded by his own faulty memory and the anger at that gave him strength, made him grab John by the shoulders and pull him to his chest. John willingly buried his face in Richard's neck, gasping out shaky sobs, occasionally trying to speak in a wavering tone. he clung on so tight and Richard felt a little disgusted with himself when a part of him was thrilled at this contact. Being treated like he was made of spun glass in the hospital meant that this, being roughly seized, soaking up tears, was what he craved. Right now, he was being needed. He was vital and relevant to this one man, the only person in the world right now who was looking out for him and spending time with him. And that, Richard decided, was the best feeling of all.

It had been strange sleeping in John's friend's bed. The sheets and blankets were new, crisp and clean and they rustled with every movement of Richard's body. He hadn't wanted to wear his itchy hospital pyjamas so had worn a pair of boxer shorts to bed. He hoped John wouldn't mind but John had been quire insistent that Richard consider 221B his own home. He could get used to that.

After John's tears had subsided last night, he'd left, quickly, muttering a quick apology and a thank you for Richard listening to his troubles. Richard couldn't help feeling disappointed, he felt like that conversation had changed things and he was expecting things to adjust accordingly. He wasn't idiotic enough to assume John now regarded him as a good friend, but he had trusted him enough to weep on his shoulder- surely that counted for something? He hoped John wasn't going to go back to the prickly, guarded man he'd been when he'd first visited him at Bart's.

Richard didn't have work, so he woke up at noon, groggy but happy and lazy, still basking in the warmth of his bed. He could hear faint sounds of construction in the distance, a drill and a repetitive hammering but it wasn't close enough to be a nuisance. Nevertheless, he had fully awakened by now and so he padded, barefoot to the bathroom and set about his ablutions.

Not long later, feeling washed and refreshed, Richard dressed himself in a plain white t-shirt and black jogging bottoms. He really had to buy some new clothes but there was the problem of having no money. He had to get a job but what company would be mad enough to hire a man with no memory of his experience working? Richard knew he'd been a presenter, maybe he could ask John if there was a way to get in touch with his manager?

He made himself some toast and a cup of tea, and went to eat it in the living room. John didn't seem to be in, and Richard found a post-it note stuck to the coffee table which confirmed this. Apparently, John had gone to work. Great. His second day here and John wouldn't even be around. He took a mutinous bite of his toast. Look like he just had the skull for company. But at that moment, he heard a clattering. He cocked his head. There it was again. Ah- the door. He wolfed down his toast and ran down the stairs. He hoped it wasn't the Mrs Hudson John spoke of so fondly, he wasn't sure if John had had a chance to talk to her yet. But he opened the door wide, excited to speak to someone new. Even if it was a sales rep or something.

A man smiled benignly down at him, one hand clutching a briefcase and the other holding a tightly furled umbrella to his side. "Hello, Mr Brook, may I come in?"


	7. Meeting With Mycroft

Richard blinked, bewildered, at his visitor, but then he remembered his manners and he pasted on a smile. "Of course, can I get you anything? Tea, coffee?"

"No thank you. I shan't be staying long." The man stepped past Richard, striding up the stairs, umbrella swinging. Richard looked on in bemusement and shook his head, quickly following the man. When he got back in the living room, the man was sitting in the green armchair with apparent ease and a thin smile. He looked like a quintessential gentleman, sitting with one leg neatly crossed over the other. He looked up as Richard entered and nodded smartly, gesturing to the chair opposite. "Take a seat, Richard," His smile widened. "I don't bite."

Richard made his way over, gripping the back of the armchair but not sitting down. He held on to the chair, needing that anchor because right now, he felt like he'd lost entire control of the situation.

"Who are you? How did you know my name? You can't boss me around in my own home!"

The man inclined his head delicately in a bashful way that didn't seem convincing. "Forgive me, Mr Brook, but I was not aware you had discussed your accommodation arrangements with the _lady_ who owns this building? Now please, sit down. You look faint."

Richard hotly flushed. The smarmy bastard had him right where he wanted him. He sat down.

"Thank you, Mr Brook. I trust you're looking after yourself, and John is making you feel at home?"

Richard nodded, clasping his hands together in his lap. Something about this man was intimidating, his quiet manner and soft voice belied the shining malice glittering in his eyes as he watched Richard fidget.

"And there haven't been any, ah, memories surfacing?"

Richard shook his head defiantly, although he couldn't meet this man's eyes. He wasn't tempted to tell him about the memory he'd had, not for one second. Instinctively, he hated this man, he was more sure of this the longer he looked at him. He was sure they must have met before.

"Curious. I'm sure this seems discouraging but I suggest you put it out of your mind." And then he said something that completely disarmed Richard. "And how is John?"

Richard wasn't sure how to respond. He wanted to lie or tell his visitor that it was none of his business, simply to irk him, but as the penetrating gaze swept over his face and his skin prickled uncomfortably as the silence dragged on, he felt compelled to reply. "He's…fine. I don't know him so I can't compare…but he's doing ok."

The man leant forward, leaning on his umbrella. "Are you sure?"

"I- um, not really. I haven't known him for long, I mean, since the coma, but he- he snaps sometimes and he's got all this stuff, his dead friend's stuff. But he's never even told me the bloke's name, and it's even all in my _room_-" He could have sworn the man flinched, the moment he referred to John's deceased friend. But it could have been a trick of the afternoon light pouring in through the open window.

"Thank you. It's not heartening to hear, but it's what I was expecting." To his surprise, the man stood up and extended his hand. "It was good to finally meet you, Mr Brook."

"Um, you too…" Richard awkwardly took the hand the man offered, feeling the long fingers wrap firmly around his wrist.

"The last time John and I spoke, we exchanged bitter words. We were both hurt and we acted childishly. If you could tell him I visited and that I am interested in making amends, I would be grateful."

"Of course, who should I say visited?"

The ma hesitated for a second, his eyes flashing over to the skull. "Mycroft."

"Mycroft? Just Mycroft?"

"Just Mycroft. Thank you, Richard. I'll show myself out." He swept past Richard, his umbrella leading the way. "Oh and Richard?" he called as he was by the door. "I should keep myself busy, if I were you. Your past is gone but you can still have a pleasant future. Get a job, socialise. After all, the devil makes work for idle hands."

Richard sank onto the sofa when he heard the door click shut. The day had barely started for him and already it was becoming increasingly bizarre.

John came in later, disgruntled, flustered and smelling strongly of disinfectant. He kept up a rapid description of his day as he discarded his coat, deposited his keys to the mantelpiece and gesticulated with frustration at his misfortune at work. "Some kid was sick all over me at the clinic today. He handled it better than the mother though, she was convinced her darling offspring had cancer. I told her 'Your son vomited because you're overfeeding him and letting him eat anything he wants. Why look, he's scarfing a Kit Kat right now!' It was a hellish day. I stopped off at Criterion's, got a couple of coffees. Hey, are you alright?"

Richard blinked at the cardboard offering placed in front of him. He mindlessly took the cup, staring down into the brown liquid. "Thanks."

"Richard," John sat opposite him, his brown eyes staring earnestly into Richard's. "You can tell me anything, you know? And _I_ can tell, you're upset."

"Just some guy came round today. Mycroft? He's worried about you, John."

John had sworn softly under his breath the moment Richard said the name, and now he was scowling at his cardboard cup. "Ok. Fine. Should have seen that coming. Did he, er, say anything else?"

"He asked if I was ok, and if I had any new memories. I told him no. John- I – I want to get a job."

"Oh. Ok." Clearly John was still musing on Richard's encounter so would be not much use to the conversation right now.

"I'm grateful for what you're doing for me, and this is my way of paying you back. I owe you, John."

Suddenly, John jerked his head up, alarm flashing over his face. "What?"

"I'm sorry? I was just saying- I want to help with the rent, I owe you-" Richard felt a niggling irritation in his brain, a feeling that he was missing something. But the living room door creaked open and a wrinkled, elfin face, framed with feathery hair peeked around the door.

"John, sweetheart, I- AAAARGH! It's, it's _him_-" And the old lady fell into the room, crashing to the carpet in a dead faint.


	8. Nowhere To Go

John leapt into action the minute the woman fell. Richard watched on helplessly as John picked her up, hefting her body to the sofa, carefully placing her down, and checking to see she hadn't bumped her head. Richard busied himself with fetching a jug of water and a glass but already she was stirring, and John was frowning accusingly at Richard as if her scare had been his fault. Well, maybe it had. She'd seen Richard and collapsed. Richard recalled the pure, raw fear on her face as she'd spotted him- and he shivered. He couldn't stay in the room with John coolly ignoring him, the doctor attentively checking the old bint's pulse and murmuring soft reassurances to her. He slammed the door on his way out.

Richard hugged his knees to his chest, sitting on the steps that lead to his and John's set of rooms. The front door was right there- what would John say if he left right now? Would he look for him? Or would he feel better off without him? Maybe Richard was just a complication to him, another thing to worry about, like the rent, Mrs Hudson, that strange man _Mycroft…_

He stood up with a start, feeling suddenly very foolish. He could find out why Mrs Hudson (if that was who the old lady was) had reacted so badly to seeing him! All he had to do was listen outside the living room door. It wasn't a nice thing to do, eavesdropping, but Richard was unable to shake the feeling that John was keeping secrets from him, and the encounter with the old lady had only reinforced that lingering doubt. Now it was a fully-formed thought that couldn't be erased. He tiptoed up the stairs, keeping close to the wall and pressed his ear against the door. He inwardly cursed for not thinking of this earlier.

The voices were muffled, but not inaudible. They wavered, growing fainter and louder as the two people moved around the room.

"I'm just a foolish old woman, John…"

"No, no, you're not…"

"I am, I shouldn't have reacted like that. It's just- that face! John, that face!" He heard a sniffling sound. Was she crying?

"That face, that awful face!"

Although he could hear fragments of their speech, he couldn't make much sense of it.

"It's alright, I won't let anything happen to us…"

"I believe you, John…"

"We're safe…I guarantee…"

"Oh, John," he heard Mrs Hudson sigh, accompanied by John's sympathetic sounds.

"Shh, it's alright, I'm here."

"Oh, but John- what would our Sherlock say? He'd be heartbroken…"

Richard had heard enough. He ran down the stairs, taking them two at a time, not caring if John heard him, in fact, almost wanting him to. That rebellious thought was chased away when he heard John racing down the stairs after him, and he spun around, readying himself for John's anger at the eavesdropping.

"How much did you hear?" John was panting slightly. He didn't look as angry as Richard had imagined, which was encouraging. Richard stepped closer, tilting his chin up bravely.

"Enough to know you didn't take me under your wing out of the goodness of your heart. John Watson: you've got an objective. Haven't you?"

John pursed his lips, an unmovable wall against Richard's barbs. He firmly shook his head. "I'm not saying a word."

"Don't lie to me, John-I'm not a child!"

"Then stop acting like one."

He could take it no longer. He had to know. He got as close as he could to John, until he could see himself reflected in John's eyes, could pick out each individual eyelash, golden-brown on tanned skin. "John," Richard breathed, his uncertainty and sincerity so clear in his hushed voice. "What sort of man was I? Tell me."

"I can't. I wish I could be honest with you but I can't. Too much has happened and- would you believe me if I said I had your best interests at heart? Because I do, Richard. I do." John clasped Richard's limp hand , his eyes silently pleading for Richard to let the matter rest.

"_Tell me,_"

"Never. You don't realise but I'm doing you a kindness. Can you please, please just trust me?"

Richard's eyes, pained and wide from hurt, narrowed at the last few words. "Trust," he spat. "Can I trust you? You've not given me a choice, John Watson. From day one. I listened to you, tried to be nice to you, and you whisper with that old crone about me, behind my back. No, I've had it with you. Is Richard Brook even my real name?"

"Why are you so caught up with who you were? It's who you are now that matters. And I like you, Richard, I really like you."

Richard wavered, his eyes pricking with tears. John's face was so expressive and emotive, the pain and uncertainty evident on his face, but there was something else. The way his gaze skipped from Richard's inquisitive eyes, shame, guilt making him hesitant. Richard had every right to be suspicious. John was hiding something from him. Was there nobody left to trust?

He took a deep breath and made for the front door. He was almost expecting John to try and physically stop him, he knew the army doctor could if he wanted. But John seemed confused, gaping like a goldfish. "Where- where are you going? You don't have anywhere to go!"

"Out. Anywhere that isn't here. Away from you, from _her-_" He jerked his head in the direction of the ceiling, to indicate Mrs Hudson but stopped when John drew him into an elaborate hug. He hugged him back, his senses assaulted with the smell of soap and tea, the feeling of the wool of John's jumper under his fingers, and the warm bulkiness of a man pressed so close to him.

"I'll let you go," John murmured, staring resolutely ahead at the drab wallpaper, although his arms tightened around Richard's waist. "You don't know how dangerous it is out there, you don't know-"

"It's London," Richard muttered, extracting himself somewhat reluctantly, from John's embrace.

"It's a battlefield. See you soon, maybe."

"Yeah, Maybe."

Richard glanced over his shoulder as he left, but John had a faraway look in his eyes and didn't notice.


	9. Angelo's

He felt like he was walking straight into the unknown, taking that one step from the flat, hearing the resounding bang of the door knocker thudding, as the door swung shut behind him. He was torn, itching to walk back inside, John's hugs and the sad, misty expression he'd worn before Richard had departed were preying on Richard's mind. John had so much to deal with- he needed Richard there. He couldn't go back now. It would be seen as weakness.

The streets were busy, he thought they'd be emptier in the evening but there were throngs of people, commuters, tourists, the homeless, so many different people but all pink-cheeked from the cold, and all studiously avoiding everyone else. Ah, London. He grinned, running his hand along a brick wall, breathing in cold, clean air, and weaving in and out of the crowd. He felt like he was swimming, cutting through the waves, being buffeted this way and that, only the tide was composed of shopping bags and bodies, and the salty tang of the sea was so far away from the smell of cigarettes and exhaust fumes. But he loved it all. He felt like he belonged here, in a way he didn't back at Baker Street. The Thames was running through his veins and he loved it. If somebody had told him that he hadn't lived in London before the accident, he'd call them a liar.

He skipped through the streets, earning suspicious side glances and swear words but he didn't care. He realised now how suffocating he'd felt back in the hospital, when with John. It was fine that he didn't know any of these people, because none of the, knew him. And here, nobody cared. Nobody was asking about his memories and his health. He was just another loon, running and laughing through London. He was no one.

When the initial excitement of being outside wore off, it was replaced with despair and anxiety. He couldn't for the life of him remember John's address. The skies had darkened considerably, hours had passed and now, without a coat, Richard was becoming cold, goose bumps prickling on his arms, his face dry and stinging. He was an idiot, a useless, blundering idiot. Why had he thought he'd be able to do this, so soon? He'd only just toddled out of hospital, for Pete's sake!

He couldn't find a familiar face and although he asked the odd passer-by for help, they ignored him and he gave up. He patted his pockets as he leaned against a brick wall, advertising a comedy show on a peeling poster. He checked his pockets again but he knew he didn't have any money. He'd been so intent on getting away from John that he'd just rushed out, without even thinking. Was John out looking for him, was he worried? Richard doubted it, he'd behaved like a fool to his only friend in the world and now he was paying for it.

He knew he should stop at one of the shops he was passing, but there weren't many open and the pubs and clubs he saw had rowdy crowds of men jostling each other and shouting abuse. He just had to find a reputable place, somewhere that would have a telephone they'd let him use- ah.

Richard's eyes lit up. A restaurant was still open, even in this late hour. The yellow light issuing from within, pouring out of the open door was a beacon and he stepped inside, nervously scanning the restaurant for someone in charge. He gasped, the place was completely empty. It was well-lit with the radiators on and he shivered, his body adjusting to the sudden change of temperature. He hugged himself, walking forward. This made him uneasy, this empty, quiet eatery and he was about to turn back and try elsewhere, but he heard a reedy laugh ringing out, a male's voice that sounded strangely familiar and he drew closer.

There was on table occupied, and Richard caught a glimpse of two men seated, having a heated debate, but before he could look closer, he felt an arm wrap around him from behind and before he could scream, a callused, sweaty hand clamped down on his mouth. Richard was dragged, thrashing madly, from the restaurant and nobody heard him, not the owner, who was removing a candle off the dining table at his private customers' behest, nor the two gentlemen dining.

When Richard had long gone, one of the gentleman rose and retrieved his umbrella from the coat and hat stand.

"Thank you, the meal was exquisite but I would have much preferred it if I paid."

Angelo smiled kindly at the man, smoothing down his apron. "Not at all, Mycroft, any friend of Sherlock's…"

"Quite. Well, I must leave the comfort of your lovely restaurant and venture outside. Duty calls, you understand. I have to check on John Watson. You remember him?"

Angelo's eyes crinkled in concern. "First met him right here. He's ok, isn't he?"

"That's what I wish to find out. Call it a favour to a friend." Mycroft's eyes drifted back to the occupied table, where his companion was finishing a glass of water. "Call it a favour to a friend."

Mycroft excused himself after a final thank you for Angelo's hospitality, and left the restaurant.


	10. Guardian Angel

The kidnapper easily hoisted Richard into his arms, holding tighter although this left Richard's mouth uncovered.

"Mm-ngh- get off me! Help! HELLLLP!" Richard kept on screaming and pleading to be released but the man ignored him, and Richard was carried to a filthy garage. He barely had time to breathe before he was thrown to the floor, awkwardly rolling up as his body made contact with the dirty floor. He winced in pain but nothing seemed to be broken or even bruised- he was more shaken than anything.

He jumped to his feet, trying not to show his fear. The man before him was dressed all in black, with a black balaclava covering his face.

"Don't- don't come any closer- I- I know jo jetsi!" He jumped as the man yanked his balaclava off and threw it to the ground, revealing a tanned, unshaved face and a thick head of hair.

"It's jiu-jitsu. And no… you don't."

The blond man strode over to the open door, pressing a button on the wall. "No!" Richard cried, but already the heavy metal shutter fell down, trapping them both inside. He could try and get out, but with the man blocking the way to the door, there wasn't much hope.

"What are you _doing?_ Please, I don't have any money or anything!"

"You had us all worried, boss. I was doing a bit of surveillance on Holmes, and then I saw you! just walking down the street, without a care in the world! Cigarette?"

Richard hurriedly shook his head. "What are you talking about? Look, I don't know where I am, please-" He closed his eyes as the man thrust his cigarette between his lips, to free his hands so he could grab hold of Richard. Richard winced miserably, trying not to breathe in the foul cigarette smoke as the man scrutinised him, large hands tight around Richard's arms.

"It's true then. What they said is true. I can hardly believe it…but here you are."

"What- what are you talking about- are you insane!"

"No- look- please don't be frightened. I'm not gonna hurt you. I'd never hurt you. You're everything to me." The man's face took on a soft, soppy expression as he gazed fondly at Richard's terrified face.

"I don't know who you are? Please, I want to go-"

"I'm sure you have a lot of questions. I do too, but now's not the time to answer them. All I'm gonna say is this: there's more to this amnesia- or more specifically, what caused it, than the doctors are lettin' on."

"Huh?" Richard sobbed as the man shook him roughly, impatience making him violent.

"The accident, the one that turned you into Rip Van fucking Winkle for a bloody year! Yes- _that_ accident-"

"What about it?"

"What was it? What happened?" Feeling Richard tense up, the man grew more animated, holding Richard so tightly his feet left the floor and he was suspended in the air, by the man's hands. "The accident- was it a car crash? Bus crash? Were you run over? Mugged? Did you swim right after eating- what happened? What _aren't_ they telling you?" The man drew in a big breath, jiggling Richard's body excitedly. "And more importantly- why."

"You're-hurting-me". The man dropped him instantly and Richard could breathe again. He scowled and was surprised to see the man flinch. He was surprised to see the man dash past him to the door, pressing the button again so the metal rose upwards, the inky sliver of outside widening.

"I've gotta go but please don't wander outside like that again. There's a disposable mobile phone in that cupboard there- call John and tell him to pick you up. But please, this is serious- get him to tell you the whole sorry story. Get him to tell you how Sherlock Holmes died. That'll knock him for six. Will you remember that? Sherlock Holmes?"

When Richard nodded mutely, the man grinned, crooked teeth flashing against the weather-beaten face. "Good." He slipped outside with surprising grace for such a big man.

"But who are you? " Richard called out desperately, hearing a motorbike roar into life outside.

"Your motherfucking guardian angel!" Came the cry, before the engine purred and the man drove away.


	11. Drunken Intimacy

**A/N: Just a massive thanks to the guest Lil for insightful and supportive reviews. Thank you so much. And yes, everyone, I will look over the chapters in my own time and beta them, I don't have a beta so there is the odd error in this fic. Also, when I uploaded each chapter, for some reason the line breaks are removed so it's all in a big block of text, so I'll have to fix that. Hope you enjoy.**

**Joss Teagan**

Richard paused outside his bedroom, hearing a soft, mewling, snuffling sound. He slowly walked in, not sure what to find. What he saw made his mind go completely blank and him stop right where he stood. The cardboard boxes stacked in the room lay open, and objects presumably from them were scattered over the floor and bed. They were mainly clothes, black slacks and silk shirts, some careful laid out on the mattress, others flung to the floor. John sat in the middle of the mass of tangled fabric, perched on the bed, clutching a maroon scarf to his chest. Richard tentatively got closer, edging his way closer, stepping over boxes and clothing, so as not to slip.

"John?"

At once John was aware of his presence and at once he began to compose himself. Or try to, at least.

"Richard! You're back…I thought you weren't coming back…" he said thickly, blinking back tears. Richard looked away as John wiped his face, knowing the man wouldn't want him to see him weakened.

"Course I'm back! Are you- upset…over me?"

"I- no. not really, I just- you mustn't go blaming yourself, Rich." He liked John saying his name like that. Richard sat down next to him, awkwardly patting his arm.

"Are you ok? Do you want to talk about it?"

"No. Makes it hurt more." And to Richard's dismay, John sobbed harder, his face crumpled with abject misery etched around the red-rimmed eyes and pursed lips. "I just- miss him so much. And when you left today, I thought 'Sherlock would be able to find him! Sherlock would know what to do!' But he's dead. I felt his pulse, saw him there, the blood and- everything…"

"Oh, John…" Richard wrapped his arms around John, pulling him closer. His heart beat a little bit faster when John held him too, and he was disgusted with himself.

"And when you left, I thought Sherlock's gone and now Richard's gone too. can't do it, can't look after these bloody, brilliant geniuses…"

Richard chuckled, despite himself. "Genius? I'm no genius."

"You are, you are. You're clever- cleverer than you think." John was slurring. Richard wrinkled his nose at the sour smell of beer on John's breath.

"John, have you been drinking?"

"Litt'e bit. Makes the pain go away..."

"You need to go to bed."

"Yeah…ok…" John seemed to be deciding something, his slightly unfocused eyes fixated on Richard's face. "Your bed."

"I- what?" Richard felt an actor without lines- he had no idea how to react to this moping, inebriated John. But John clearly didn't share his confusion because he was tugging at Richard's top, trying to pull it over Richard's head but blocked by Richard's hands.

"C'mon. You an' me." John had given up on Richard's clothing and was not unbuttoning his own shirt, albeit with fumbling fingers and extreme difficulty.

"No, no! Stop taking your clothes off!" This situation was getting very bizarre but Richard owed it to his friend to stop things before they embarrassed themselves. He tried to haul John up, thinking that maybe a glass of water would help sober him up, but John had different ideas.

Richard tried again to help John up, but the next second the breath was knocked out of him as John pounced on him, pushing him into the mattress and kissing him violently. Richard's head swam as his mouth was assaulted; his tongue was overloaded with the strong taste of the beer heavy on John's breath. John had been drinking more than Richard had realised. He could barely move, let alone kiss back, but this wasn't really kissing, it was tasting and testing but it wasn't romantic. He grappled for purchase, trying to use John to push himself up the bed, but John rolled his hips and Richard froze, feeling something hard prod his thigh. He wasn't ready for this, how could this be happening so quickly? He would be lying if he said he hadn't thought about it, but now that John was here, humping Richard's leg and breathing huskily in his ear, he felt he couldn't react.

"So good to me, you're always so good…" John kept up a breathless mantra as he kissed anywhere he could reach, Richard's neck, his ear, his cheek and nose. Richard knew this wouldn't stop unless he stopped it, and with that thought in mind, he tried to wring as much pleasure out of this as he could, knowing that this wouldn't last, that John might not even remember this tomorrow, drunk as he was.

He kissed back, sliding his hands under John's shirt and up his sweaty, flexing back, gripping his shoulders and wantonly rubbing their bodies together. His fingers slid easily over John's skin, and their bodies were moving as one, as natural as the ebb and flow of the tide. Richard arched his back as a particularly powerful thrust rubbed his clothed groin directly against John's, and this action caused his top to ride up. Richard could feel Sherlock's fancy shirts crumpling and rustling underneath their bodies, sticking to their skin. He reached behind him to seize the shirt, a posh, slippery one, and flicked it derisively away, where it fluttered to the floor with a whisper of silk. This seemed symbolic to him, like he was erasing the dead man's hold over John. Sherlock had left John and all that was left were these ridiculous garments- and now they were scrunched up and creased, carelessly flattened under John and Richard's passionate embrace. Richard smirked at the shirt, but then his eyes caught the beer can lying on the floor. He couldn't tell how much alcohol John had imbibed, but it was too much, that was obvious. And really, what kind of man would Richard be if he took advantage of John? John's judgement was distorted, and Richard was certain John would never forgive him if he used this impaired judgment to sate his own desires.

"I'm gonna get up now," he whispered to John, and there really wasn't much of an effort to free himself from John, by now John was pliant and agreeable, lolling on the bed, with his eyes closed. Richard glanced at the door but he didn't fancy sleeping on the sofa and he didn't want to sleep in John's bed either, especially without permission. He supposed he could get John to sleep in his own room rather than lying sprawled out on Richard's bed but he looked so content, quietly napping, that Richard didn't have the heart to move him. He shrugged, suddenly feeling weary. It had been a taxing day. He hopped onto the bed, curling up next to John. They were lying on the blankets so for warmth, he slung one of John's arms over his waist and snuggled up next to him. He felt warm. Safe.


	12. Waking Up

Richard arose slowly, feeling consciousness press upon him gradually, the deafness of sleep fading away to be replaced by the cooing of pigeons outside and the hum of a vacuum downstairs. Mrs Hudson probably. He'd have to meet her soon enough. Sighing, Richard sat up but frowned as an arm fell from around his shoulders to encircle his waist. Of course, John had slept in his bed yesterday. He'd made the right choice in not trying to move him to another room, John was heavy and Richard most likely would have put his back out, heaving the drunk man along the hallway. He smiled sleepily at John's slumbering was amazing how sleep could change a person's face, bring out a youthful, vulnerable air to them. He shivered suddenly, his thoughts taking a darker path as he imagined John seeing Sherlock like this, so still and quiet, only from death rather than sleep. Sherlock was blurry-faced, but his skin was pale and Richard could just make out a crop of dark hair. He wondered excitedly if it was a memory or just a guess at what Sherlock looked like. A lot of men had dark hair. A lot of men were pale. He sighed, snuggling up to John again, resting his head on his chest. Maybe he could catch another half hour or so, warm and cosy, cuddled up to his friend. Although what they had done yesterday surpassed the normal boundaries of 'friendship'…

But then he heard John groan, and he slipped a little down John's chest as John propped himself up on his elbows, letting out a massive yawn. John looked a lot more agreeable when still hazy from sleep, so Richard nuzzled his neck, smiling against the hot skin. "Morning," he chirped, but no sooner had the words left his lips than John shoved him away, causing Richard to fall off the bed. It wasn't a nice way to greet the morning and he sat there in shock. Had their night really meant so little? His lip quivered and he looked up beseechingly at John. How could he still be so cruel after everything last night?

"Ah, shit, I feel bloody awful," John rubbed his hand across his eyes, wincing at the harsh sunlight. "Close the curtains, will you?"

"I would have thought," Richard said as he crossed the room to shut the heavy curtains. "that you might be nicer to me, seeing as how I was so nice to you, last night."

"Last night? We didn't- we didn't do anything, did we?"

"You were drunk, very drunk," Richard said in an offhand way, but inside, he felt strange, unsure of what he really felt. Was he relieved or not that John didn't remember?

"Yes, yes but what happened? What did we do?"

Richard slid into bed next to him, pleased to note that in John's anxious state, he let Richard get close, wrap his bod around John's. "Not nice being the one who can't remember, is it?"

"Richard, if you give me anymore shit, I swear-"

Richard leapt out of bed, neatly straightening his clothes. "You cried. You got sad." If he'd turned around, he would have seen John tense at the childlike, sing-song tone he was using, but Richard was too focused on wielding this one piece of knowledge he had that John didn't. "Luckily, your friend was there to help you. I think I'll go out today."

"Richard-"

"You mentioned Sherlock." And Richard darted out of the room with a laugh, as John tripped on the bedcovers in his effort to catch up.

Richard was dressed in black chinos, a cream-coloured shirt and a beige cardigan when John joined him, dressed in faded jeans and a ratty black sweater.

"Hi," John set about making them both breakfast, cracking eggs against a bowl. Richard lounged against the counter, waiting for John to say more. He was sick of having to work his way around John's sudden moods, but this was the last straw. After their passion and emotion last night, he wasn't prepared for John to sweep it under the carpet as he did everything else.

"I'm sorry for snapping at you, Richard. I had a headache, I was disorientated but that was no excuse for my behaviour."

Richard didn't goad the man who was brandishing an egg whisk, and he was finally placated by John's apology. "That's alright. You weren't…bad or anything. I mean last night. I don't mean, I-"

"Rich, slow down. Pass the butter, please. I'm making scrambled eggs, I hope that's ok."

"It's fine. What I mean to say is- you didn't say anything incriminating. About Sherlock."

"Ah,"

"You just said you missed him, and stuff,"

John huffed out a breath, pausing in the act of whisking the eggs. "Ok. Well, that's true, I do miss him. Every day."

"That's natural. Um, John, I'm sorry I mocked you for not being able to remember. I've lost years if my life and it feels horrible, I wouldn't wish it on anyone, not even my worst enemy."

John nodded silently, his brown eyes thoughtful. When he spoke, it was in careful, deliberate tones, as if one wrong word could be the undoing of them. "Although I suppose you don't remember who your worst enemy is, do you?"

Richard shrugged, picking up the bowl and pouring the contents onto a frying pan. As he fried the eggs and the aroma began to fill the room, John tensed, looking dazed.

"John, are you ok?"

"Richard, this is a stupid question but- how do you know how to make scrambled eggs? I don't understand- you can't remember anything of your life but you can make breakfast."

"I guess it's just the amnesia. The doctors said to me that some people get amnesia so bad they can't even walk or talk, they have to learn their life all over again. But it's different for me. I- I look in the mirror and I see a stranger. I walk along certain streets and it feels right or wrong, or unfamiliar but it's only feelings. I could probably meet my mother and not know who she is. But I can talk and function and I know things- I don't know how I know them, but things are just there. I feel- John, to be honest, I don't feel like a children's TV presenter. I don't think I even like kids, but I am, and that's what they told me, the doctors."

"Lots of people who work with kids don't like kids. Roald Dahl hated kids. What do you feel like?"

"I don't know, that's the thing! I need a job, John. I'm just leeching off you, you're working hard to support us both and I'm doing nothing. I'm going to get a job, I don't know what I'll do but as long as I'm helping you-" Richard was surprised to feel John hug him. He could barely concentrate on the eggs, he was so surprised he leant back, enjoying the contact, the strong arms enveloping him.

"I'm sorry, Rich. I know I keep being so bloody unpleasant, but it's just so much, you know? Stress. And grief, I suppose. I guess I'm snapping at you because I expect the worst from you, but you've been so good…I'll tell you about Sherlock. Tonight. Promise."

Richard was surprised but flattered John trusted him with this. He hid his shock by ladling out the eggs onto two plates, although he couldn't help the small smile on his lips.

As they ate in the living room with their plates on their knees, Richard tried to envision John sitting just like this, talking and smiling with another man, Sherlock, as they shovelled in mouthfuls of mushy egg, smothered in ketchup. The thought made him grow cold, so he settled for enjoying the meal with John, awaiting the conversation that would take place later. Tonight.


	13. Holmes And Moriarty

"So, where should I start? A Study In Pink? Or a later case?" John said, propping himself up on his elbows. He'd discarded the scratchy black wool jumper and his grey shirt underneath was baggy, almost billowing, the sleeves rolled up along his forearms. He looked plain and straightforward, but to Richard, he looked gorgeous. The two of them were lying on John's bed. This change of location had come as a surprise to Richard, but he had learned it was because John's leg was 'playing up', apparently, it throbbed with pain, so he tried to rest it and keep it elevated. John had made tea for himself and hot chocolate for Richard, and the two of them had adjourned upstairs.

"I feel like I'm in an Agatha Christie novel," Richard said with a giggle, taking a sip of his hot chocolate. It was the perfect temperature, and he smiled gratefully at John.

"I'll start at the beginning, I guess. It all started with my discharge from the army, I'd taken a shot to the shoulder…"

As John spoke, time slipped by, and the room grew darker, the shadows thickened in the corners of the room. Richard was oblivious to this as he was fully immersed in John's story. He could picture John running along the streets of London with the pale, dark-haired Sherlock Holmes. John had described him as "Vampire-white, with a mass of black curls," although apparently his most striking feature were "his eyes- they were this _indescribable _colour. Blue and green and grey all at once, and they saw everything. They were like the shutter on a camera lens, taking in everything, and sealing it away." Sherlock had quite a clever tongue as well, and Richard had laughed himself silly at some of Sherlock's best lines, lovingly recounted by John. John's impression of Sherlock was hilarious as well, a deep, rumbling voice with an overly hoity-toity, clipped tone. He made him sound like royalty. John was finishing A Study In Pink, when he mentioned Sherlock's fan. Both John and Richard had relaxed as the story wore on, first sitting, then slouching and now, lying on the bed, facing each other, their heads propped up on their hands. It was rather intimate, Richard thought, but what John was saying couldn't constitute as pillow talk. Richard was desperate to know who the 'fan' was, the obsessive person who had sent Jeff Hope, the killer cab driver after Sherlock Holmes. Although John sometimes stumbled in his story-telling, thinking of the right word to use or not being able to remember some detail, the narrative was captivating and Richard was dying to know more.

When John said 'Moriarty', Richard frowned, feeling as if something clicked inside his brain. Like a cog turning, or a lever moving into a different position. And that's how he felt- different. Off-kilter. He laid his free hand on the dead space of mattress between them, dead man's land. It still felt intimate, lying here with John, but now he wasn't sure if he liked it, he felt oddly unclean, or out of step with John, and he didn't know why. John's hand somehow landed on top of Richard's, and they awkwardly stayed like that, while John began the next story.

Moriarty didn't feature in this one, but now, the story didn't feel quite as fun. Not with Richard's insides squirming as if some parasite had nested in his gut. The only good thing was that John didn't take his hand away from Richard's, and their fingers lazily entwined, the only point of connection between them. He wanted to know more about Moriarty, so he asked John straight out, just as John was explaining the book code to Richard.

"John…did you ever hear anything else about Moriarty?"

John blinked at the interruption, but he answered immediately, and Richard wondered if he was at all surprised. "Yes, as a matter of fact, I did. Sherlock and I met him a few times."

"It was a him?"

"Yes."

"What was he like?"

"Underwhelming. Looked a bit like a rat. Anyway, Sherlock realised the book the gang were using for their code, and all by chance-"

John continued the story without interruption. Unfortunately, he seemed to think that was a good place to stop, and concluded the re-telling for the night. He would tell Richard the rest the next night, he said. Richard was disappointed but he smiled and thanked John for taking the time to regale him with these adventures. John's smile in return had been small but sweet, sincere and pleased. Richard felt ridiculously proud for having made John happy in his own small way.

He went back to his own room, but after the warmth and company he'd just enjoyed, lying in this cold, hard bed was a dismal prospect. He dozed off anyway, and when his eyes opened, it was pitch black in the room, the whole flat was silent. Richard got up, accidentally stubbing his toe on one of the infernal cardboard boxes. He got himself a glass of water from the kitchen, and leaned against the counter mulling over all the things John had told him. Standing in a half-dark kitchen in the eerily silent flat, all the tales John had told him about killer taxi drivers and Chinese gangsters didn't seem as cartoonish and entertaining as they had seen John's room. Richard felt very small, clutching his glass, in a dressing gown. Why, there could be assassins and serial killers lurking outside at this very moment! Reaching a decision, he abandoned his beverage and crept upstairs, cracking John's bedroom door open an inch. John didn't stir. Carefully, Richard tiptoed into the room, feeling his way past furniture to slip between the sheets of the bed. Just for an hour, he told himself. He wouldn't spend the whole night here. But the bed, soft, unlike Sherlock's unused bed, was warm and comfortable, a thick, womb-like cocoon,, the heavy blankets blocking out the light from the hallway. with John's warm, relaxed body inches from his, Richard's eyes closed and he fell into a deep sleep.


End file.
